


Ten by Ten

by phoebesmum



Category: Sports Night
Genre: Angst, Happy Ending, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-21
Updated: 2010-02-21
Packaged: 2017-10-07 10:58:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/64491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phoebesmum/pseuds/phoebesmum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ten is a concept that's much on Dan's mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ten by Ten

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tommygirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tommygirl/gifts).



> Written October 2008 for tommygirl, in support of the LJ community LiveLongandMarry.

There's this about being a writer: words are such an intrinsic part of your life that they can take _over_ your life, take on a life of their own, if you let your guard down. The Davis Cup thing isn't going to write itself – you wish! – but somehow all you've managed to write so far today is 'ten'. 'Tennis fans are anticipating' – ah; whatever. Let them anticipate all they want.

_Ten_. It's sitting staring you rudely in the face. 'Ten' is a concept that's been much on your mind of late. It's November 23, and you know what _that_ means. An anniversary. Your tenth, in fact, of course. And you wonder – as every year you wonder – whether this will be the year when …

Ah, no. You never say what, exactly, it is that you're hoping for. That's a certain way to ensure it never comes true. Not that you think it ever will. After that one time, five years back, the subject's never come up again: you don't raise it, still stinging from rejection even though it had turned out all right in the end, and he … well, he never talks about that kind of stuff. But your fingers are working independently of your brain, and now they're free-associating.

_Tenterhooks_, you've written. You're not sure what they are – you looked it up once; something to do with drying wool, if you remember correctly – but, whatever they are, you're on them. Have been for, well, for ten years now, if you count from _Lone Star_, fifteen if you go all the way back to when you and he first met. You don't, really, count that far back: you were just a kid back then, and pretty fucked-up, you fell in love, or thought you did, with just about anyone who'd spare you a kind word or a smile. Casey was just one of the many, one of the many impossible dreams.

He's stayed that way, which is why the next word on your list is _tenuous_. As romances go, there isn't much here to build on. The two of you are close, nobody could deny that, but as far as you can tell, that's as far as he cares to take it. Buddies, and not even fuck-buddies at that; partners, and only in the professional sense. So what if you can sometimes read one another's thoughts, finish each other's sentences? That's just custom and long acquaintance. No more than that. And if he sometimes stands too close to you, lays his hand to your neck or to the small of your back in that hurtingly familiar way – you know it means nothing.

_Tenacity_. That's something you have in spades. With precious little evidence to lay as a foundation, you've built a whole heaping, tottering edifice, a Tower of Babel founded on and dedicated to confusion and misunderstanding. You know you should give it up, turn and walk away and never look back, and yet … you still hold on. You cling to this hazy, nonsensical fantasy, let it wrap you up in its _tendrils_ or, no, _tentacles_ would be more apt: choking, smothering, wrapping you so tight you can barely breathe, let alone struggle. If you wanted to struggle; you're not sure that you do. And that leads to _tension_, as you try to walk the narrow line between what's real and what's imagined, always so, so careful to never give yourself away, not by a look, not a touch, not by a gesture or the tone of your voice. Sometimes that spills over; there's anger then, and bitterness, and, afterward, regret … ah, but then there's reconciliation, apologies and, for the briefest of moments, the merest trace of _tenderness_.

You daren't consider that for too long. If you let yourself remember the way he's looked at you sometimes (the way you imagined he looked at you; you know, you know you were only fooling yourself), that singular tone of his voice that, in all these years, you've never heard him use to anyone else ... oh, god. If you thought about those things, really thought about them, then you don't know how you could keep on playing this game of let's pretend.

_Tenebrous_. Now, there's a word. Shadowy, murky, intangible as your hopes and dreams. Remind yourself: even if he cared for you that way (and if he does, he's done a pretty good job of hiding it), it would still be impossible. Or, to continue with the theme, it would not be _tenable_. Being who you are, doing what you do, the two of you – can you imagine what it would do to your lives, your careers?

In fact, you can imagine it, only too well, and often have. It's difficult enough for you, living a half-life, a lie. You can't expect him to do the same. There's more at stake for him and, besides … he's just not that guy. Never has been. You know this.

Sometimes it's too much for you to bear, and you think about leaving, breaking away and making a fresh start, somewhere new, someplace where there are no ties, no memories. Someplace where he is not. You think about it, but you never do it. You have _tenure_ here: you love your job, you care about what you do, you're comfortable in your workplace, you have colleagues you love, people who depend on you. There's too much here that you treasure; you can't just walk out and throw it all away. And in any case, why should you? Why should _you_ be the one to leave?

You know the answer to that, too. You'd be the one to leave because this is your problem. Not his; not anyone else's. Yours.

You look at the screen, at the list of words. Nine words beginning with ten. For the sake of symmetry, there should be another, but now your mind is blank. Three keystrokes later, and so is the screen.

Start again, start over.

If only you could.

There's motion at the corner of your eye. The door swings open. You look up, fake a smile as he breezes in, loose-limbed and gawky as always, somehow manages to snag a foot in the carpet, stumbles, swears and struggles to right himself. Which is good. That means you get to laugh at him, and _that_ means you don't have to fake anything any more. Or, anyway – not much.

You stop laughing when you realise what he's wearing. Yes, you still remember it: why wouldn't you? That entire first broadcast, that entire first day, is burned into your memory, indelibly etched on your brain. It could be a coincidence. Must be. Except you haven't seen Casey wear that jacket in years; thought that tie which, god knows, is pretty damn ugly and what were the wardrobe people thinking that day, had gone to the unsuspecting Salvation Army years ago.

He's caught himself by his hands on the edge of your desk; that means his eyes are more or less level with yours. Looking straight into yours; serious, intent. You want to look away, say something, do something to snap the tension, break the spell, but somehow you can't. You can only stare back, and you know that you're not smiling any more.

Nor is he. And now his hand is reaching out toward you: slow, cautious, uncertain.

_Tentative_.

***


End file.
